Ruby Ricin

Botanical illustration of a Ricinus leaf, on the drawing board, when I last photographed it

It's been a productive time in the Inky Leaves studio and once again 'time' is doing it's own thing and not obeying the simple laws of logic. Luckily for me, time is moving very slowly, at a moment when I thought it would be zooming past. This is excellent news as not only must I be enjoying life to the max (I feel like I have crammed in a lot), but I must still be managing to keep up a good painting pace. All I have to do now is paint out three more 'medium sized' leaves before the second week of May and I am on track. This is how one does thirty six pieces in 12 months. 

Artist at work...

Up close - work in progress on the Castor Oil Plant (Ricinus communis)

This fortnight saw the birth of a ruby-coloured ricin (castor oil plant) leaf called Rina. As a juvenile leaf she has this fantastic purply-coppery colour. I love the leaves of the castor oil plant; they always look so menacing, if a little creepy. The new leaves are very sculptural and can appear almost metallic in the way they reflect the light. Whenever I see them I always think of Karl Blossfeldt (click on link for latest exhibition tour dates) and feel that he would have liked to have done something with a Ricinus leaf. Astonishingly, I first decided that I wanted to paint this species back in 2006 when I ran away from Edinburgh for a weekend in Paris. I remember seeing a clump growing in the municipal gardens of Les Jardines des Plantes and decided there and then that I would at some point paint it. Of course during those days I wasn't really a painter - I was studying for my Masters in botanical taxonomy - and it wouldn't be for another ten years when I'd finally get round to it. I am happy it took this long - it's given me the space to not only work out how I wanted to depict it, but also to develop the skills required to do so.

Studio shot for a sense of scale (Ricinus communis)

Ricinus communis leaf - work in progress

So there you have it - Ricinus. I am not sure if you have noticed yet, but I haven't been posting any pictures of the leaves finished. If you want to see them finished, you'll have to come to the show! I will update you as to when this is nearer the time, but it is likely to coincide with next years RHS London Botanical Art Show.

Moving on from deadly plants...

This week the weather has turned a bit cold and 'mis' here in Spain and we have snow forecast, although it looks more like hail at the moment. The swifts have arrived in some areas and the daffodils have just come out into bloom. Surprisingly, the bulbous plants here are much later than the ones in the UK and I can only put it down to our cold nights. So naturally this inclement weather has kept me focused - staying indoors rather than sloping off outside. I am slowly climbing the mountain of 36 pieces in a year. The plan is to also paint six pieces for 2017's RHS show this summer, which will hopefully take me to the first week of September, when, if all goes well, I will be painting 15 smaller pieces on vellum whilst touching up the other 15 larger leaves. I realise it's an insane painting programme, but it is not fun unless it is bonkers. Last night, in theme with the effort required to climb piles of plant-based work, gigantism and being slightly mad I dreamt I climbed a Seville Orange. I was smaller than the size of a pithy dimple, which I hasten to add, were like craters. It smelt fantastic as I dug my heels into the skin and clawed my way up to the top stem. I managed to complete the climb, which I am taking as a positive omen and wasn't too exhausted as the fragrant oil was invigorating.

Vine Leaf

With the sky now lobbing balls of ice at my window, I have managed to start another leaf called Victoria. It's a decaying grape vine leaf (I don't blame her, it's freezing outside). There are some fantastic colours in this one which I am very much looking forward to describing with paint. 

New piece - work in progress - decaying grape vine leaf (Vitis vinifera)

Working on the grape vine leaf 

News Flash

Talking of grape vines, I have heard on a vine made up of grapes that there will be another Mrs. Delany exhibition.  Will keep you posted as soon as I have more info but I sp0tted the news as a tweet on Angie Lewin's feed - printmaker extraordinaire. 

Dreams of Magma

Last night I dreamt I was painting molten magma... I remember getting rather flustered. This wasn't because I was standing on a hot volcano, but more because the stuff kept moving. It was very irritating. The movement was indeed slow, but nonetheless it moved and with my technique being of equal slow speed my paintings inevitably became very fluid in order to catch up with the rhythm. There is probably some Freudian symbolism going on, but the dream is more likely the product of 'much-intense-staring' at a decaying Judas Tree leaf... It's colours are amazing - more pink than yellow or orange and there are all these little black blemishes. I started this A1 painting on the 2nd of February and 8 days later we find ourselves here (below):

Judas Tree Leaf (10th February 2016)
Work in progress on 76 x 56cm Saunders Waterford 640gsm paper

It still isn't finished but I am very happy with the current painting pace. Unlike before where I used to paint for roughly 10 hours a day, I am now only clocking 7 hour working days (it's actually 9 but with two one hour breaks). This is obviously much healthier. I am able to do this because my pace is getting faster. This must be the result of practice and the fact that I am getting more rest by doing shorter days. I feel it is good to experiment with day length. I know for certain that I haven't found the optimum painting to break ratio, but I am getting close. Of course, this is a winter pace, come summer this mathematical sum will go flying out of the window as I adopt summer hours... There certainly is never a dull moment in the higher latitudes!

Here's a photograph to give some sense of scale and the appalling light levels I am working in today.
My eyes have certainly got used to the Spanish sun.
It is a particularly gloomy day today and I just can't see a darn thing.

 Colours...

This is a very unusual palette for me. I find focusing on yellows very, very difficult. Yesterday, however, something started to click and I am beginning to understand this part of the spectrum  more. I am also understanding the importance of light washes and how to build layers. With this leaf, even in the same area, the colour of one layer of paint will be very different to another layer and the uppermost layers are often the 'brighter' colours, such as Permanent Rose and New Gamhodge. This is odd, as I always thought you should do it the other way around, adding the darker hues last so not to muddy the yellow. Oh well... For those who want to know, the colours I am using are:

W&N Olive Green (you'd be surprised at how much - often an upper layer)

W&N New Gamhodge (bottom and uppermost layers and in mixes. I have also only just worked this out by looking at the bottom of the pan -  I thought I was using transparent yellow!)

W&N Permanent Rose

W&N Perylene Maroon (I love this colour)

W&N Permanent Magenta (teeny bit)

W&N Hookers Green (hardly any)

DR Cobalt Blue (because I love it. I am using this in mixes and in it's unadulterated raw form)

Brushes...

I am using loads of brushes for this one. I start with a biggy and go smaller as I work in the detail last. For the detail level I have a very slender rigger for the veins, a scruffy hard spotter for removing paint in the shadows to reveal veins and a big oil painting brush for scruffing/buffing the paper up (its ok - I burnish afterwards). I have three series 22 (Rosemary and Co) brushes, two at size 2 and one at size 3, one series 44 (size 2 or 3 can't remember). I think I might even have a series 441 in the mix too. So what's that? Eight brushes, yes that is about right. They are all on their last legs, so I am having to use loads for the job. Not ideal. Plus, with all the washes being of various colours, I have three of the series 22 on the go rather than just one to avoid wastage and contamination.

Close up on the right side...

 Over time...

I thought I'd put a little snapshot of this leaf day-by-day so you can see the progression - I haven't done this in a while. I used to do it all of the time! 

Botanical illustration of a Judas Tree (Cercis siliquastrum) leaf (3rd February 2016) 

Botanical illustration of a Judas Tree (Cercis siliquastrum) leaf (4th February 2016)

Botanical illustration of a Judas Tree (Cercis siliquastrum) leaf (5th February 2016)

Botanical illustration of a Judas Tree (Cercis siliquastrum) leaf (6th February 2016)

Botanical illustration of a Judas Tree (Cercis siliquastrum) leaf (7th February 2016)

Botanical illustration of a Judas Tree (Cercis siliquastrum) leaf (8th February 2016)

Botanical illustration of a Judas Tree (Cercis siliquastrum) leaf (9th February 2016)

Indiana and the Temple of Leaf

Botanical illustration of 'Indiana' (Catalpa bignonioides)
work in progress - 76 x 56cm - watercolour on paper

Its been a month.. I won't apologise as I had nothing of importance to say and dislike publishing drivel. It certainly has been a odd time, I know it usually is in my world, but there has been a lot of too-ing and fro-ing in space and time. I am basically doing more 'time travel' than usual and it still goes on. At first it took me by surprise as I entered what I call the 12^th house* back in December. As you already know, it took me to some dark places (the maze), but now its taking me to some wonderful places and since January I have decided to just let go and ride this Wonker-like roller-coaster.

Polar Bear, the steam engine I used to work on as a 
child at Amberley Museum - my very own roller-coaster

This morning I find myself going through some receipts I found from my trip to California back 2013 and this is what I mean by time travel. It can take on all sorts of forms. Last night while I was trying to get to sleep, I found myself in the dens of my childhood, riding steam engines and eating picnics. What is peculiar about these experiences is that they aren't just memories or spells of reminiscence - I am actually THERE. I can smell the smoke and hear the birds, feel the clay dust, the soot and the dampness of the woodlands of Amberley Museum where I was 'brought up'. I can hear the wurring of the heater under my feet in the gift shop and navigate my way through all the offices at different stages of their own evolution. I can jump from one theatre bench to another and cast shadow puppets on the wall where the projector casts its light. I can see all the hundreds of museum keys mounted on another wall, all splattered in oil and grime from dirty hands and engines. I spot the cat and enter the mess room. I trace every line on every worn out face and collect years of experience from their tired eyes. Stained tea cups, coffee grounds, chalk footprints. The clank, clank, clank of the blacksmith going about his work, the toot from the train and the ding of the cow bell on the pottery bicycle. This is so real, it is like I am on drugs. Is this full blown nostalgia I wonder? I don’t think it is, as there is no sense of longing, its just I am there like ghost, like a time traveller. I can even watch myself. It is poignant, the entire vision isn't nostalgia it is a garment of clothing that covers my skin and makes me, me.

It has been rather beautiful this January... still no rain and lots of sunshine.
The farmers are a bit worried about the lack of rain, but life goes on.

GIANT BEANS...

As I find myself there again, in the wonderland of my childhood, I come to remember I giant ceramic bean that my mother made for an event at the museum, I must have been 11 or 12 years old at the time. It was a carefully planned operation by my mother. She made this enormous deep red bean which was glazed in cadmium red and gold ready for a special day where all the children would come into the site, see the enormous bean (which was about as big as 2 year old) and help to dig a hole to bury it. Then, come Christmas, it would have grown into a giant bean stalk ready for Santa's grotto. I helped with the installation... painting massive bean leaves against a cloudy blue sky in the freezing cold December air in a pair of dungarees. Things like this have made me who I am, nothing has changed, I am still painting big leaves.

The beginnings of the Judas Leaf - started yesterday

AND GINGER MUMMIES...

I watched the 'Immortal Egyptians' on the BBC last week (recommend it!)... again, I found myself leaving my present state of being. I was not in Spain, I was not 31 years old, I was 8 years old, in the British Museum on my first school trip, staring down at a petrified (naturally mummified) corpse called 'Ginger'. Time stopped when I was 8 just like it did last last week, but when I was 8 years old I was travelling even further back. I was picturing him laying in the desert. That moment was so important to me that I actually decided to start this blog back in 2009 using the poem I wrote about the experience in 1992. Museums... they seem to have pretty much dictated my evolution.

AND THE TEMPLE OF LEAF...

Leaftastic

The leaves continue to evolve and grow and I think I have a title for the show, although it isn't set in stone yet: 'The Botanical Menagerie'. It's either this or 'Leafscapes'. The first is an attempt to try and describe the fact that these are leaves in 'cages' on display - like a menagerie, or a zoo. The second has a double meaning on the fact that the paintings are like landscapes or maps, but it is also a bit of a pun as the leaves are trying to 'escape'. Anyway - I welcome your thoughts on these titles. It might be that the whole double show is the 'menagerie' and then under this title come the leafscapes and the RHS. 

So, news front - my studio has turned into a forest of leaves as I keep starting new works, getting the skeletons in and then moving onto the next one. I am not sure why I am working like this. It is rather frenzied and not my usual style. I feel that there is a subconscious tactic to this approach - it's almost like I am trying to see what a bunch of enormous leaves look like together and if this is actually going to work before investing too much time on each individual piece, whilst also ensuring that they are all finished 'together' at the same skill level. I am finding that with all this practice my painting is most certainly improving and this could mean that the leaves I do right this minute might end up looking very different to the leaves I finish in December 2016. As with all shows, I feel that there needs to be a level of consistency, so to juggle them around in this way is helping to achieve this. Come summer, when I am working from live specimens, I won't be able to do this as well, but these dried petrified leaves seem to be helping me with this process.

Indiana, Indie and Pop1. 

I nipped into London this month to see the Julia Cameron exhibition and the Bauer Brothers, both of which were lovely, intimate shows. I like intimate, bite sized exhibitions - they are so much easier to digest and usually less busy. The Bauer brothers was so small that no one in the Natural History Museum knew what I was talking about when I asked where it was or where the book was in the gift shop. It was a secret show! Anyway, I am already looking forward to going back to London for the Georgia O'Keefe show at Tate in the Autumn. Can't wait!

And here they all are (bar one)... 

*Astrological terminology for the 12th house that is often associated with dreams and illusions - the room within a room.

El Día de Reyes Magos

As I kneel on the stripy rug in our sitting room individually wrapping our 1930s glass baubles, I am reminded of a former time when I used to wrap 18th century minerals in museum in a similar way. Funny how life can randomly take you to places without you having to move an inch. I look at the gridded cardboard box which is filled to the brim with a mixture of kitchen roll and tissue paper. Each poorly scrunched up ball of white revealing a glimmer of jewel like bauble.  "Beautiful" I say to myself, like I do every year and I remind myself that next year I will take a picture of them in their box. 2016's Christmas will no doubt come and I'll probably forget again. There is always this sense of urgency when it comes to the Christmas decorations for me. I am either desperate to get them on the tree or desperate to file them away and get on with life by the time twelfth night arrives. 

We drove to Fornes this afternoon in a car full of my mothers pots - its time for the first firing for her latest collection which will be on show in London this April. Strapped in the back I had some plates, my mum had the big beetle jar, Andrew was driving. We cruised through the mountains and farms under a bruised sky. It kept changing colour, from yellow to peach to blue to purple and the fields below seemed to reflect the marbling back. I felt like I was privy to a secret conversation between the land and the sky. The olive trees have changed shape - their branches now sag with their heavy loads of fruit and no longer search for the sky with so much passion. Their leaves shone silver against a blackened sky and at their roots the soil had turned into embers of burnt sienna. Yellow fields of feathery asparagus glowed in the random shards of sunlight that escaped the inky air like amber. It was certainly a feast for the eyes. 

Mum's Beetle Jar - a work in progress.
Work by Kitty Shepherd, Facebook page here.

The landscape here in Spain has changed over the past seven days, changing from anaemic yellow to lush green after three days of much needed rain. It really is a welcome break from the never ending sunshine for the farmers and at last the mountain is dusted in icing sugar like the pale pink flowers which are now erupting from the dark skeletons of Almond trees. Being in the campo today was dramatic, romantic and deeply nourishing.

So my back is still not great and I cannot for the life of me work out quite what I have done, but I think it is a combination of carrying too much luggage when in London last October (as its been bad since then), raking too vigorously in November and painting, (but the latter hasn't caused it, just prevented it from healing). So work has slowed down quite a bit... At first this drove me nuts, but I have now let go and am just rolling with it. 

Ann-Marie Evans, a train and the colour green

What a morning it has been! I have not stopped... First I enter a discussion with NASA after I ask Tim Peakes what he is growing in his Space Station Greenhouse - apparently it is Zinnia flowers. Then there's a chat with Emelia Fox about her role as Marianne North - thanks for that one Jarnie. Then I am in communication with a kindred spirit about mural painting (hoping to paint a massive mural this summer) and then I am the luckiest girl in the world as I get a copy of one of Rory's letters. Pinching myself that this morning really did happen, I then spot that Ann-Marie Evans got an MBE - thanks Katherine for notifying me of this one!  

Ann-Marie Evans

Her's and my paths have crossed twice so far in our lives. This is a good story, one of those magical time loops, so if you have the time, do read on it isn't long. It all started on a cold Autumnal day in October when my dear friend and expert botanist, Alex Prendergast and I met up in London. He was on his way to Plymouth from Norwich to see me. We had sceduled a weekend to plant Plymouth Strawberries together and I decided to meet him half way in London (his blog post on the day is here). We usually hit the museums or a garden when we are in the Big Smoke and I remember that usually this time the two of us didn't know what to do because I wanted to see the Mary Delany exhibition in the city centre and he wanted to go to Kew (he always does). In the end I backed down on the condition that we would pop into the Shirley Sherwood Gallery of Botanical Art as it has just opened and I hadn't been before. A massive fan of botanical art, and an artist himself, he agreed. 

SBA coursework Plymouth Strawberry - work in progress shot

As the clouds started to hide the tired sun we made a move to Paddington and hopped onto a noisy train to Plymouth. To my relief it was warm inside. Alex then started reading something on botany and I got my embroidery out. After about 30 minutes into the journey I found myself eavesdropping on a conservation ahead of us further into the carriage. There were three ladies gathered around a table - two with their back to me and one facing me. I recognised the lady facing me instantly, but couldn't for the life of me work out why. She had a book from the Mary Delany exhibition with her and was talking about the artwork - she certainly knew her stuff. I was instantly struck with intrigue and began to wish I had forced Alex to go to the exhibition. I continued to listen in and nudged Alex, saying 'you see that lady - who is she'?! Disgruntled that I had interrupted his reading flow with something as trivial as this, creases starting forming in his brow. I wasn't sure if they were there from the thoughts of working out who this lady was or from anger at me or both. He then looked at me like I had lost the plot and went back to scanning the pages of his book to find his place. Annoyed at this treatment, I then nudged him again and instructed him to get his i-phone out and Google her. Realising that I wasn't going to let this go until I had an answer, he dutifully did want he was told. I then went to the loo and on the way back say that one of the ladies with her back to me was knitting and the other crocheting. I was now completely entranced by this group of ladies and wanted to join them, but shyness got the better of me and I sat back in my place next to Alex.

Mrs Delany's paper cut outs

Then the knitter got up and went to the loo and on her way back, saw that I was sewing and commented. Within minutes we were all having a jolly between the chairs, but the lady facing me didn't move or speak to me. Alex was still Goggling her, she probably knew. At last I heard a name and when the conversation died down I said Alex - "Google 'Ann-Marie' with the word 'illustrator' as that must be how I recognise her and she knows her stuff about botanical art". Sure enough, it was her. I was stunned and took it as an omen. I was stunned because I didn't ever remember having seen or heard of her before. I didn't know what I recognised and took it that I recognised a kindred spirit.  A few weeks before all this I had decided to start taking botanical art more seriously and felt that if I couldn't get a contract after my job at Plymouth Museum had ended, that I would just paint full time and be saved by the grace of adopting such faith in my art. I signed up to the SBA after seeing Ann Marie (I never introduced myself), and embarked on the course. I then left Plymouth when my time had come to an end, broke my right index finger, met Henry and got a job in the very gallery I saw on that fateful day. 

Four years had passed and on a unusually warm Spring day a very well dressed, small grey haired lady walked into the gallery - we clocked each other straight away at the entrance and she walked in. After an hour my colleague went up for lunch and I was left alone. The lady came over to write in the comments book and I said finally felt after all this time that I could say "hello", so I did, and went on to explain about the fateful train journey. She seemed very kind and talked about the colour green for about 20 minutes. Apparently, according to Ann-Marie, no one has got it right. It was after this moment in time when I made it my mission to capture the colour green and, two years on I am still trying...

Cacophony of Green

As a botanical artist I feel it is important that we think about what we are doing with our art. It is lovely to be able to sit back and paint a flower just as it is like an Edwardian Lady, and that is absolutely fine, but I feel very passionate about trying to develop on this hobbiest approach to our work to give it some gravitas. I know I am not alone - there are many botanical artists who think very deeply about the meaning of their work and its evolution and this is superb as it benefits not only the art form, but all of us - from painter to observer.

Making pictures with soundwaves

Not long ago I was asked by someone how I would paint our Lord, Jesus Christ. Firstly, I thought - this is a very good question as I am now completely stumped. Unusually for me I couldn't find an answer and was left speechless. At the time I was with several other people and I could feel their eyes and hearts desperately trying to pull an answer out of me. I felt the weight of responsibility crushing down on my shoulders. With the knowledge that I could not just stand there in silence I was becoming aware that whatever answer came out of my mouth it had to delivered in an honest, heart felt and nourishing way. After what seemed like a lifetime of silence (but was probably only 30 seconds) I realised that the reason I couldn't answer was because there was no answer (this is a difficult concept again for me to realise as, like my father would say, I have an answer for EVERYTHING).

A Grid of Audio Speakers That Shoots Fleeting Patterns of Fog by Daniel Schulze 

I found myself merging a thousand catholic-based images of him dressed in linen robes or nailed on a cross with his wispy hair and sorrowful eyes. Then I was seeing him as white light and thought - yes a circle of white I would do that, but then I found myself revisiting all this stuff I have been considering about space, white and black, light and shadow, and realised that white wouldn't do. In the end, around a table where you could hear a pin drop, I found myself saying "I cannot depict him. I thought that it would be possible to draw him as a circle of white light, but that wouldn't work, because he can be there in the darkness. With this in mind I would have to describe him in sound - like a constant hum". To me, like the souls of all living things, he belongs to that part of the electromagnetic spectrum. It's the subtle hum of life that is observed only through dedicated listening.

A Closer Winter Tunnel, February - March, 2006

 "I heard myself close my eyes, then open them"

Loys Masson, Icare ou le voyageur

Sound in botanical art

Since that chilly autumnal evening in Chichester I have not stopped thinking about this conundrum and how I ended up, quite unexpectedly, communicating something this profound! I came to realise that at the time I must have felt that did not have the skill to make such an image that could capture something so broad and satisfy so many needs, but  I know that some artists can. I realise everyone has a different take on spiritual matters and so I am not going to go into that, but what I am interested in is if pictures can communicate sound or something beyond the image. For example, when you see a Monet, can you hear a sound? Obviously, not a real sound, but one in your 'being'. It could be a single frequency, or it could be a cacophony but something internal. What do you feel in sensory terms and is what you feel beyond touch, smell and taste? I am particularly interested in this from a botanical art point of view as for me, when a botanical painting is executed incredibly well, I can, on a spiritual level, 'hear' it. The plants sing, there is movement, there is time beyond our sense of it. For example, I am sure many of us would agree that Rory's pictures sing, you might not have noticed it, but there's a frequency there, it is beyond the audible.

Van Gogh Sunflowers - National Portrait Gallery

"Her secret was

Listening to flowers

Wear out their colour"

Noel Bureau, Les mains tendues

In science, we attempt to explain the universe objectively, that is, without a viewer, and therefore in my mind, science fails to explain art or the unique effects artists can synthesise from it. As a scientist, this has always fascinated me because in this day and age this is fundamentally where the pseudo-dichotomy between the two hemispheres begins. During my training I always found science too impersonal and felt that this unnatural treatment of observation was, and will remain to be, its greatest stumbling blocks. However, like in all things there are exceptions to this, for example, Quantum physics is one branch of the sciences where great discoveries are being made. I feel that this is because it focuses on the power of our observation - it is personal. Other pure sciences are more clinical in their approach. In every truly creative idea or discovery it should be noted that there is usually some form of fundamental discontinuity. For great art or science to happen, the methods in which the projection of images and sounds enter an observer need to involve more than basic logic or synergy. 

"You can hear the prattle of the flowers on the screen"

Rene-Guy Cadou, Helene ou le regne vegetal. 

So as botanical illustrators/artists, sitting all over the place on the spectrum of 'science art', from the representationalists right through the stylists, it is important for us to consider our imaginations and how they can always form something that is beyond reason to transport our audiences. We need to remember that our existence and our reactions to it cannot be explained in simple quantitative terms - something I think many of us forget as we try to capture 'form' (see previous blog post where I discuss 'emotion' in botanical art). I believe that it is in understanding this phenomenon that will make our art, in all of its forms, great.                                                    

"I live in the tranquillity of flowers, summer is growing"

Thoreau, Walden.

In her 'background coloured in' pieces, I believe that Margaret Mee was another one of those botanical artists who knew how to paint something could transcend itself by getting us to use our imaginations - playing on our senses to enter something quite primal in our being.

Personification of Leaves

I find myself lying in bed with a bad back/right arm combo. As I don't own a laptop I have dragged my bed across the floor towards my desktop and have pulled my keyboard out to full extension so that I can type whilst sitting in bed. This has suddenly become a very dark day (AGAIN). I have no idea what is going on right now only that I appear to be struggling with everything, which is ridiculous as I don't really have pressures in life at the moment. It just go to show you that you can't escape yourself. 

Me with plants painted by Piers Ottey 2004

Whilst laying in bed and writing in all of my diaries something extraordinary manifests in my thoughts - a realisation: I am my leaves, the leaves are me. Every leafscape is not only a portrayal of a dystopian ecology, every one of them is also a reflection of me. Stuck on the margin on the paper, unable to claim their space, full of life or slowly decaying, spiky or soft, they are all facets me. 

I mentioned my dreams of giant leaves and tree trunks in my last post. When reflecting on my plant-based dreams, one in particular still plays on my mind. It must have been dreamt back in 2012 when I was still living in Kew. In it I found my old bedroom in a house of many houses. It was covered in dust, and shafts of life erupted from the furniture and climbed towards the shuttered window. Disrupted layers of dust whirled around the stagnant, stratified air. Toys I had forgotten ever owning were left out, half drunk cups of tea, university papers, school journals - you name it, everything was inside this hexagonal room. The room held all the items every one of my rooms has ever held, it was a capsule of my space and identity. Stunned I had come across such treasure my eyes went back to the thing they noticed first - the bed, from out which grew a coffee tree. It was Caroline and she was in bloom, but her flowers were that of a Gardenia- big, white and showy. Her roots covered the bed and her branches, which were full of singing, electric green birds, spread out like an awning in their desperate search for light. She was incredibly stunted but able to function nonetheless and the entire room had developed its own ecosystem.

On remembering this dream I remember all the others I had during that year of trees growing in houses and churches, halls, bedrooms, cellars and attics. There were dozens of them, all different species and all dwarfed by their environment. I now see a theme developing... took a while for me to remember and piece it together, but the brain is an amazing muscle that always requires time (and space). So with that in mind I am left feeling rather stunned and a teeny bit sad, trying to work out what I need to do in order to move away from the margin and into that white space. That is, if I want to. I think I do, but the subconscious is a strange thing and maybe, just maybe there is something inside of me that prefers the margin. 

The art of polishing and partying

Still polishing this botanical illustration of an Artichoke leaf  (76 x 56cm)
(Cynara cardunculus var. scolymus)...

I took a day off yesterday and drove across Spain. I needed to spend some time out of the studio, to travel under a big blue sky and see something new. The journey took me to the ancient city of Gaudix where the people still live inside caves, and onwards through the Alpujarras and to the towns of Yegen, Órgiva and Lanjarón. I saw great swathes of national forest, Roman ruins and Islamic castles. The weather has been incredibly unusual of late and as a consequence confused Almond trees have started to blossom again and there wasn't any snow to stop me in my tracks. Only fragments of mica piled up on the mountain slopes glistened in the sunlight shining like little mirrors, and the only a few deer and a partridge provided company - there was no one around - it was the middle of nowhere and incredibly silent. 

It has been a busy week in the studio - lots of darting about from painting to painting. A very restless energy has built up and it is being reflected in my work. I have been trying to finish the Artichoke, whilst also delving deeper into the giant poplar leaf - two paintings that couldn't be any more different to each other. I like this, it is keeping my brain busy, preventing boredom. I wish I could say that I don't get bored, but I do. After weeks painting the same subject in the same colour it can get a little overwhelming. Mid last week when I sat down in front of the Artichoke I felt my tummy doing somersaults and actually felt a bit sick, like I'd eaten too much chocolate. I usually take this as a sign to stop what I am doing and move away. The intensity of the Artichoke is also not doing my back any favours as I tend to tense up when working in that amount of detail, so the Poplar has been a useful tool in doing the exact opposite. 

Little and Large, although little isn't exactly little! Artichoke (on top) and Poplar (underneath) - a sense of scale
(Cynara cardunculus var. scolymus and Populus nigra)

I am still on a limited palette but have swapped my D&R Rose Madder for D&R Cadmium Red (an old one too, so its bound to be seriously toxic) and I have to say I am very much enjoying it. I had forgotten what an awesome colour this is, especially if you mix your own green and don't use any green pans. It just gives the green some depth and reality. 

Black Poplar (Populus nigra) leaf found in the plantations of Granada (1.5m x 1m)

I have been reading a fabulous book called On Longing by Susan Stewart which I recommend to those who are interested in the psychology of longing, especially in the context of art. I found some of my missing paints that had managed to hide themselves under the plastic casing of my Daler Rowney set when I knocked all of my paints on the floor after the catastrophe that was starting the Poplar leaf. Video link here:

Live from the Inky Leaves studio...
Posted by Inky Leaves on Friday, 4 December 2015

Had a Christmas party, but still not done my shopping... leaves took over my life. Shopping tomorrow...

Have a very lovely Christmas everyone if I don't see you in this virtual space before hand!